


You will be altared

by KassieProphet



Series: Ghost Prompts [29]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost B.C.
Genre: Altar Sex, F/M, Mild Humiliation, Mistaken Identity, Spanking, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: A self-insert request:BDE Rat-Papa catches naughty altar boi being naughty. Altar boi turns out to be genderqueer altar girl when bent over.
Relationships: Papa Emeritus IV/Original Female Character, popia/original female character
Series: Ghost Prompts [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536134
Comments: 72
Kudos: 28





	You will be altared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImpudentGuttersnipe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpudentGuttersnipe/gifts).



It’s not that you’re being derelict in your duties—though you are. Or even that you’re reading on Church time—though you are. It’s that instead of checking those black candles for length during your designated hours, you’re lounging on a pew—one leg emerging from your black cotta and cassock and slug over the back—reading the Bible.

The  _ Bible _ .

Sure, you’re flicking through the tissue-thin pages snorting at the hypocrisy within and trying to find the smitey good bits—but it’s the  _ Bible _ . A Holy text in this Unholy Chapel. The Clergy had always led you to believe holy objects would just combust upon entry to the Abbey, but the existence of this book and crucifix you know of, seems to prove otherwise. Despite being the only one in the Chapel—and the only sound being the crinkle of pages—you don’t hear him approach.

How long he stood there, quiet and stock still, is still a mystery to you. Maybe he watched you tear through the pages—sometimes laughing, sometimes clicking your tongue—for minutes … or maybe his reaction was immediate. Either way, you’re alerted to his presence when you hear a subtle throat clear behind you.

Freezing, you lean your head back and encounter the upside-down visage of the man of the hour: Papa Emeritus IV (aka Popia). He stands stick straight, regal in his brand new robes and mitre, his gloved hands clasped in front of him.

You scramble up clumsily, hastily chucking the book into the corner of the pew.

“Car—uh, Pop, um … Your Dark Excellency, sir,” you sputter as you adjust your glasses.

His eyes travel down your lithe body, then back up to your face. You see his eyebrow quirk even under the new black paint.

“I take it you have completed your duties, boy?”

“I, err … not … not as yet. Your Dark Excellency.”

He  _ tsks _ .

“Let us see it then.”

“See it?” you squeak.

“ _ Sí _ . Let us see the tome that has distracted you from your responsibilities.”

He stretches out his hand—the edges of his vestments sliding down his arm an inch—and makes a “give it here” motion with his fingers. When you hesitate, he clicks his tongue and snaps his fingers.

“That’s  _ one _ .”

“Yes, Dark Excellency,” you gulp.

You reach over sideways to take up the holy text before reluctantly placing it into his open palm. It’s heavy enough that he needs to place his hand over it—but you know he saw the cross on the cover. He runs his gloved fingers down the cover, those mismatched eyes of his assessing; he turns it front to back, then does a quick fan through the pages.

“Were you actually reading this,  _ ragazzo _ ?” he asks as he holds the book up so it’s facing you. “A  _ Bible _ ? In our Unholy place of worship?” He sounds more confused than angry.

“Yes, Dark Excellency.”

“ _ Perché _ ? The Church has failed you? You have found my spiritual guidance lacking perhaps?”

“No, Papa! Nothing like that!”

“Then why?”

You shrug.

He snaps again.

“That’s  _ two _ . Answer me, my Child.”

“It was funny.”

“Funny.”

“Yes.”

He considers you.

“You blasphemed against our Dark Lord for shits and giggles.”

“I—I was being facetious?”

Popia’s face doesn’t change, but some of the tension seems to ease from his posture. He seems to glide over to you, robes swishing, and he circles you.

“Ah. I see,” he says. “So you slack in your profane duties and disrespect His unholy chapel because you wanted to be a little shit, eh?” He tuts. “This transgressive behavior is unbecoming in one of age.”

You snort before you even stop to think better of it.

“This whole Church is built around the idea of misbehaving.”

“But not Anarchy,” he snaps. “That’s  _ three _ , Brother. There are still  _ rules _ . I see Papa must teach a lesson, yes?”

You sigh knowing your immediate future is about to be full of penance, and you sink to your knees.

“Hail Lilith, full of disgrace—” you start, but Popia has ripped out one of the delicate pages to crumple, pressing into your mouth.

He puts a finger under your chin so you meet his burning gaze.

“While I enjoy always seeing those of my flock on knees before me, we are past the time for prayer.”

You swear you see his white eye glint.

Another page, another rip, and another ball of paper. And another.

And another.

Soon your mouth is filled with the softening paper—and still Popia tears out page after page, never pausing until your cheeks are bulging.

“How is it feeling to be filled with the words of God, my Child?”

It tastes pretty gross honestly, and you make a face at him indicating so. He pets at your protruding cheek, then trails down your throat—his buttery gloves gliding easily down your skin. For a moment you fear he means to make you swallow the wad in your mouth, but after he gives your throat a small squeeze, he cups his gloved hand under your mouth.

“Spit.”

You roll up the whole mess as best as you can before depositing the clump into his palm. He snaps his fingers, and from nowhere one of the Abbey Ghouls melts out of the darkness. Your eyes widen, but Popia just makes a guttural hissing noise at the creature. It chitters back at him, accepting the wet mound before bowing minutely and slinking back off into the shadows.

“Now  _ mio caro _ , let us with another lesson in God’s words.”

You flinch slightly when Popia brings his palms together, the slap bouncing off the walls.

“Up!” 

He claps his hands in time. “Up, up, up!”

You scramble to your feet.

“Over to the altar. Go! Now!”

You move quickly to obey.

“ _ Molto buona _ . Now, bend over; flat palms  _ per favore _ .”

You follow his commands—trembling in anticipation—and squeeze your thighs together to stoke the ember of arousal between your legs. You watch as he deliberately sets down his mitre on the presider's chair, then carefully hangs his cope over the top of one side. Popia approaches you, white paint brilliant in the filtered sun, his skull accents stark against the gleam. You’re so entranced by his crisp veneer that you’re startled when he slams the Bible down in front of you—the thud of it echoing throughout the empty Chapel.

“Now,  _ mio caro _ . Please tell me what I should be doing with this filth.” He taps it with a finger. 

You look up at him.

“Teaching me a lesson with it, Your Dark Excellency.”

“Ah!  _ Molto buona _ ! Just what I was thinking. Yes?”

“Yes, Your Dark Excellency.”

He purrs at you as his leather-clad fingers run through the buzzed hair on the back of your head. The tips then trace down your bare neck and trail down your spine until they reach the meat of your ass. He gives each cheek a hearty squeeze before he folds up the end of your cotta, then he rucks up your cassock, revealing your boy shorts. You feel his gloved hand sneak up under a leg of them to pinch at your flesh. You try to flex your thighs again, but Popia  _ tsks _ and kicks your legs apart, removing his touch.

“Ah ah ah. None of that now.”

You feel him rub the Bible across your cheeks.

“Let us say 7 for each of their holy days, and then 3 for each insolence.” He lays a palm on the small of your back. “Yes?”

“Yes, Your Dark Excellency.”

His touch recedes. Sooner than you were expecting, and still longer than you anticipated, the thud of the Bible making contact with your ass causes you to gasp out a breath as your glasses jolt forward dangerously. You’re quick to tear them off your face to place safely on the space in front of you. Popia patiently waits, magnanimously letting you get back into position before bringing the second blow down upon you. When the smack lands, it has your eyes rolling back. You barely register hits 3 and 4, but by blow 5 you’re clutching the sides of the altar. Six melds with 7, but at 8, your gasp hitches high in your throat. The last 2 have you beginning to squirm, but your panting isn’t from pain.

Popia sets the books in front of you and gives you a soft slap with his hand—when you moan, he growls. His hand skates across your shorts before he’s pulling them down by the waistband even as he’s leaning over to hiss in your ear.

“I see you have learned no lesson. Perhaps you need a more, ah, hands-on approach.”

His hand slides down your ass to press into your perineum … then pauses. His fingers inch further to investigate your folds, then you feel the heat of him withdraw from your back. 

“Ah,” you hear him say.

You turn to look at him over your shoulder, a wide grin on your face. He’s looking at you with a slight winkle in between his brows.

“Whoops,” you say as you wink.

In a blink, his expression smooths.

“It is of no consequence,” he says, waving his mistake away. He begins to nonchalantly tug off his gloves digit by digit. “You still require correction—and I will still be giving it to you.”

He twirls his finger at you, and you shore back up into position. When the leather of his gloves land on your ass, you let out a squeak borne of surprise.

“ _ Mmm _ , I cannot wait to be hearing the sweet noises you shall make.”

You hear the thwack of his gloves hit the floor just as his bare fingers slip easily in between your wet lips.

“Very nice,  _ mia cara _ .”

When the pad of his finger slips over your clit, you let out a gasp, and his hand quickly recedes.

“Ah ah ah,” chastises Popia.

You hear a sucking noise, then a pleased rumble. Popia crowds into you, the stiff embroidery of his chasuble scratching against your sensitive skin and his erection pressing into the meat of you. His hands push your cotta and cassock as far up your back as they’ll go; his hands then slide across the expanse of your skin before traveling under you to cup at the buds of your breasts and to thumb at your pert nipples.

A moan passes your lips, and Popia leans down, his mustache tickling your ear as his lips brush against it.

“You need punishment, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,  _ what _ ?” he growls as a hand detaches from your tit to grasp at your windpipe.

“Yes P-Papa!”

Popia shudders against you, his lips encasing your ear and the tip of his nose running back and forth through your shorn hair. The hand around your throat travels up your face—his pinky briefly inserting itself into your mouth and catching on the corner of your lips—before fondling the few spiky tufts of hair on your head and running through the soft fuzz on the back of your skull.

“And you will allow me to punish you, s _ í _ ?” he growls lowly in your ear.

“Yes, Papa!”

“ _ Fuck _ .”

His presence disappears from your back, then he’s pulling you toward him and kicking your legs wider apart. There’s much rustling behind you, and you clench around nothing, anticipating his cock—so when his warm tongue prods at you, you let out an  _ Ah _ of surprise. He traces your slit before diving in to lap at your clit. His hands stroke up your flanks, one breaking away to insert itself in your hole. When you ooze forward in ecstasy, he stops his ministrations to bark out an order to  _ Stay still _ , and you’re quick to resume your position—even as your legs tremble.

Popia’s nose presses into your curls, but that doesn’t seem to deter him at all as he tongues at you. Your lips feel heavy, and you’re shaking with how close you are to climaxing

and his tongue suddenly disappears.

When you whine in protest, he removes his hand to slap at your ass again.

“ _ Silenzio _ .”

You pant, trying to calm yourself before Popia starts up at you again. His tongue circles your nub as his finger slips back into you, and you moan. If anything, the need to cum is back with a vengeance, and you let out little keens. You feel yourself pulsate—so  _ close _ —

and then he pulls away again.

Despite his earlier command, you let out a whimper, and he  _ tsks _ at you.

“Such misbehavior. I see you need more discipline.”

He moves from beneath you, and you hear the rustling of clothes behind you. His robes drape suddenly over you, warming your back, as you feel the poke of his hardness in the meat of your ass. He slips his cock through your wet lips—and you grunt in pleasure when his cockhead hits your clit—and just as soon it withdraws as he begins to press into you.

“Oh yes, Papa!” you exclaim. “I’ve been such a naughty girl!”

“And I’m going to make you feel it,” he snarls as he pushes you forward with his cock and angles you down by the head with his hand.

Even through the runner the altar is cold on your bare skin, and the cloth—though of a good thread count—is still rough against your nipples as you’re jolted across it. Popia’s hips snap into you, his pelvis slapping against your ass—the smack of it resounding through the open space. His one hand grips your hip bone for leverage as the other—still cupped around your skull—scrubs through the soft scruff of your hair from nape to crown and back.

Popia grunts as he thrusts into you, and you whine in delight as he punches into your G-spot, clenching around him. He suddenly slows, leaning down to growl into your ear.

“You cum when I say and not before.” His hand travels to tap at the Bible. “Or we shall revisit this, yes?”

“Yes, Papa,” you slur.

Your labia is full with arousal and your clit is throbbing; Popia seems to know just the right angle to keep hitting your sweet spot—and since he’s directed you not to cum, it’s all you can do to stop yourself from letting go and clenching around him in climax. You’re trying to control your breathing, but your breath is getting punched out of you with each of his hard thrusts into your body.

“Papa … Papa  _ please _ . Papa …”

He grips hard into your slender waist.

“Papa  _ what _ ?” he snarls.

“Oh,  _ Lucifer _ —Papa Emeritus the Fourth!”

He bites at your shoulder and you feel his dick throb.

“And have we—” he wheezes, “have we learned our lesson,  _ mia cara _ ?”

“Oh yes, Papa!”

“Then cum on my cock—I want to feel you clench around me.”

He straightens up so he can pound into you faster.

“Do it,  _ cara _ . Please your Papa.”

You meet him thrust for thrust, hands gripping the side of the altar tight, but it’s not quite enough.

“Please, Papa,” you beg.

“Ah ah ah. You are forgetting,” he says as he slows a little. “This is a punishment, no? You must follow Papa’s orders. It’s on my cock you must cum.”

You whine in frustration even as a hand slips under you to pinch at your nipples. He doesn’t speed up his pace again, even though you feel the slight tremor in his legs.

“Papa can only hold out for so long,  _ cara _ ,” he taunts.

You slam back into him, clenching in an attempt to get some stimulation on your clit. He grunts, and speeds up again.

“I’m such a bad girl, Papa,” you babble. “Thank you for correcting me. I deserve so much worse, don’t I, Papa?”

He hisses, gripping you harder and pulling you into him.

“A very bad girl,  _ sí _ . Perhaps next time I will use my cane. Pray to the Olde One I don’t give you to my Ghouls for punishment.”

You moan loudly.

“… or perhaps I will. They will use your body and show you the light of Lucifer, so you shall never need look elsewhere again. I will make of you an example in front of the whole congregation—”

You let out a long, low moan as the spike of arousal, the punch of his cock, and the clench of your muscles combine to tip you over the edge. You arch your back as you spasm in climax and clench hard around Popia’s cock.

“Oh sweet Lucifer below …” gasps Popia.

He pulls out, his cock hot and kicking, and runs himself through your folds as he spurts onto the altar and down the inside of your thighs. You slump moments before he collapses onto your back, breathing hard.

“Satanas,” you mumble eventually.

Popia clumsily pets at your head.

“You have learned your lesson, yes?”

You angle your head toward him.

“I don’t know, Your Dark Excellency. I’m quite headstrong. I’m only slightly contrite.”

There’s only a minute pause before he responds, a hand scritching along your scalp again.

“I am happy always to lead a wolf back to flock … just give your old Papa 10 minutes, eh?”


End file.
